


Sincerely Yours

by relic_amaranth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking to Cope, Epistolary, Established Relationship, F/M, Gender-neutral Reader, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Romance, Temporary Character Death, italics abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14951981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relic_amaranth/pseuds/relic_amaranth
Summary: The apocalypse is over and you try to go home to Chuck to heal, only to find that he’s gone too. You take comfort in writing letters to your dead lover, even though he’ll never read them. Or so you think.





	Sincerely Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate season six. This starts off a little rough but I assure you it gets better. The formatting might be a little fucked up because I had a hard time figuring out how to make it consistent, but I tried to make the scene breaks, and the parts with the letters, as clear as I could. Hopefully you can understand it. Please enjoy.

 

 

 

It’s over.

The world is safe.

But nobody ever mentions the cost of these things, except for in somber ‘but it was worth it’ tones. Sam is gone. Dean is broken. Cas is off to fix heaven. Gabriel is _dead_. And you feel raw. The lead up to the main event has bruised the world as it is and you’ve lost your closest friends. Sam, Dean, Cas; god, even Gabriel, who you thought could slip out of anything. Bobby is reeling too, and you have only one person who you can think to go to now. There’s only one person you _want_ to go to now.

When you pull up at Chuck’s house it’s barely dawn and all is quiet. You go grab the key he keeps hidden on the porch and it takes your shaking hands a few tries to slip it into the lock. If Chuck is working, you intend to help him shut down and go to bed. If he’s already in bed, you’re going to crawl in there and curl up next to him.

But the house is almost eerily quiet, despite several of the lights being left on. Pinpricks tickle the back of your neck and you slip your gun into your hand. A quick sweep of the first floor reveals nothing, though. It’s…clean. That’s weird, but while everything is put away, it’s done in a very ‘Chuck’ manner– haphazard, ‘shove everything under the bed or in a cupboard’ sort of way.

It makes you smile, but just for a moment. The typewriter is pristine and the table is clear of everything except for it and a glass half-full of amber liquid. There’s no paper, no hastily scribbled notes, and that’s not like Chuck at all.

You sway and you hold the wall to steady yourself. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself awake. Sleep can wait. “Chuck?” you call out and go quiet to listen. It’s probably a terrible thing to think, but the fact that he left some alcohol untouched makes you feel incredibly uneasy. But even as you cautiously check upstairs, you find it in much the same way. Nothing is disturbed. Messes are cleaned up. The bed is cold and perfectly made, and it’s like it hasn’t been disturbed in days. He could have slept on the couch, but–

Exhaustion pulls you to your knees and you can barely blink, you’re so tired. The days without sleep have caught up to you so completely it’s all you can do to crawl on top of the covers before you black out.

 

When you wake, the house is just as undisturbed as you left it when you went to sleep. You check the wards you put down weeks ago and they’re undisturbed. But…there’s still no sign of Chuck.

For days you hang around and try to search the area and surreptitiously question the neighbors. However none of them seem overly concerned by the disappearance of their friendly neighborhood shut-in. In some respects, that’s fair. In others…he wasn’t exactly agoraphobic.

But Vera just pats your hand, says, “I’m sure he’s fine, dear,” and then waddles off with Phil to go to their neighborhood potluck.

Nothing is fine; nothing has _been_ fine in what feels like forever. You want to curl up next to Chuck on the couch, you want to pull him to bed when he’s working too hard, you want to hear the keyboard clattering with different cadences depending on whether he’s having a flash of inspiration or struggling to expel a single sentence.

Nothing suddenly becomes fine when, one day, a letter comes through the mail. From Chuck. Addressed to you.

You rip open the envelope, unfold the paper, and take a deep breath before you start reading.

 

_“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to write this. Actually, I’m hoping you never get this. I hope I’m there to intercept it. If I’m there and you’re reading this, stop now and go beat me with it. It’ll be better for the both of us– I promise._

_If I’m not there with you, like I want to be, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Because it means that what I saw was a vision, not a nightmare, and I’m dead.”_

 

You read the rest of the letter and drink yourself illiterate.

Chuck is dead.

He’s vague about the details and couches it in apologies, explaining that you have more important things to do, that the world is at stake and he wants you to go on in whatever way you can. The house is in your name, what little he makes from the books goes to you–

–but Chuck is dead.

Chuck is dead and Dean just up and left and Sam is in _hell_ and Bobby has boarded himself away in grief and Cas is in heaven and Gabriel is no longer anywhere in existence and you’d rather drown in liquor than tears.

It doesn’t work though, and everything hurts.

When you finally leave you lock up carefully, having reapplied the wards, because even if you can’t stand to be inside this monument to the life you’ll never get to have, it’s still Chuck’s. It’s stained and worn, but warm and lived in. It reminds you of him in every way, so strongly that you have to turn and go before the overwhelming sorrow makes you sick again.

 

 

 

 

You used to write to him. Phone calls and texting were standard, sure, but handwritten letters were something you started on a lark that he really enjoyed. It seems fitting that he would say goodbye on pages smeared with ink from a faulty fountain pen, in little scratches and large swirls. You keep it folded up in your breast pocket.

When a couple of weeks have passed and you’re able to function on a basic level again, you sit down at the desk in your latest of rotating motel rooms with a pen and some paper of your very own.

 

_“Dear Chuck,_

_I miss you. I’m mad at you. I don’t know what to say, even in a letter you won't ever get to read._

_I wish you had called and told me you were in trouble, apocalypse or not. I wish I had taken the time to come check on you. I wish I had done and said a lot more, honestly._

_Do you remember when we were joking around and I asked you for the lottery numbers? I guess I technically won it. I have a house, and some money in a bank account. But I’d give it all up to have you back again.”_

 

You ramble for a paragraph that you ultimately end up scribbling out. When the drink you’ve been nursing begins to make everything fuzzy, you fold up the letter, put it in an envelope, scribble ‘Chuck’ on said envelope, and stumble over to the bed. You don’t know what you’re going to do with the letter, but fuck it, that’s an issue for the morning.

Except, the next morning, you can’t find the damn thing. You’re a bit frazzled, having been woken up by a cryptic phone call from Bobby to ‘get your ass here now, no I’m not dying, idjit, but you still better hustle _or else_ ’ and you don’t have time to look too hard. You don’t remember writing anything incriminating, and honestly, you’re itching to get on the road. You feel surprisingly refreshed for having drunk and cried yourself to sleep. But then, you did get some stuff off your chest, so this ‘catharsis’ thing might not be total bullshit after all.

 

 

 

 

You're about to launch yourself at the thing that _dares_ to wear your best friend’s face when Bobby hauls you back. “It’s him!” he says. “It’s really him.”

Sam plasters a weak smile on his face and waits for you to calm down. You can hardly believe it, but if _Bobby_ says it’s true…

You click the safety on, holster your gun, and run at Sam to hug him. He’s a little stiff, a little distant, but you can’t imagine surviving an hour in hell, let alone however long Sam was actually there.

If only Chuck could be so lucky.

 

“ _Dear Chuck,_

_It’s been a crazy few weeks. Sam is alive and back and kind of weird, but he was in hell so that’s sort of his prerogative. We’ve worked on a few hunts together, and during one we…sort of ran into Dean. Who didn’t know Sam was alive._

_Cue Winchester drama. I’ll probably be buying Dean drinks for the next five years, which doesn’t seem fair since you’d think Sam or Bobby should have called him first, but no, it’s my fault too. This is definitely one of those things I’d call you up to whine about, because Bobby would just tell me to suck it up, but you’d get the frustration._

_And, if I’m being honest, you’d probably laugh at me. But I wouldn’t mind. I love your laugh. I miss your laugh. Not the nervous one you made when you didn’t know what else to do (though that was pretty cute too) but those times you laughed so suddenly and looked so surprised, like you didn’t know you were still capable of doing that. I love that I was able to make you laugh like that. I regret that I never got to learn why you looked so shocked, what happened to make you think you couldn’t laugh like that. I regret a lot of things I never got to ask. Or say._

_But if I keep on with that, this’ll get too maudlin and I’m trying to stay positive. It’s the only way I can keep going, most days._

_But it’s not all bad. Bobby is out of the bottle again, and even though I don’t travel with them all the time, it’s soothing to know Sam and Dean are on the road again and that I can call on them if I need them…_ ”

 

You write a little bit more, put it in an envelope, and this time you put it right on top of your phone before you go to bed.

So, naturally, it’s lost when you wake up again. You figure the fan must have blown it somewhere on the floor during the night but you get distracted by a bigger problem. Your phone is blinking with a warning that your voicemail is full, which is bullshit because you feel like you just did this, but you sit down to clean it out because unfair workings of the universe or not, you can’t afford to let Sam or Dean or Bobby get stymied because they can’t leave a message.

It becomes a blessing in disguise when you get to the end and find an old message you thought for sure you had lost long ago. It’s from Chuck, joking about something you had texted him, and in the middle of it he _laughs_. Just like you remember, just like you’ve missed.

 

 

 

 

You're in a bar with Dean, trying to talk yourself out of smashing a bottle over his head. It hasn’t been a good month. Sam is definitely off in a way that puts you and Dean on edge, but no solution has presented itself, so you both occasionally break off to drink and commiserate.

Dean is less about the commiserating tonight and more about the griping. Mostly about Cas. Like, 96% Cas, and you just feel so done because he still, _still_ doesn’t get it.

“–and where does he even get off saying shit like that, even, I–”

“Kiss him.”

Dean takes a moment to get his brain to work. His reaction is about what you expect. “ _What_?!”

“You don’t want him to leave, you want him to listen to you, and you want him to know what he means to you, so. Kiss him.”

“I did _not_ –”

“Okay, so you didn’t explicitly say that third one, but I know how to read between the lines.” You run your finger around the rim of your glass. You’re tired; you’ll probably finish this and go to bed.

“There’s a hell of a lot of steps in between liking someone and wanting to bone them.” Dean scowls deeply. “And it’s _not like that_!”

Bull-fucking-shit. “Oh come _on_ ,” you snap, a little sharper than you mean to be, but you’re basically a cart rolling downhill. “I’m not an idiot, Dean; this thing between you and Cas has been building for a while and one of you has got to make a move before both of you spontaneously combust, or die for good. Since Cas is the only being in the universe more stubborn than you, it’s up to _you_ to get your shit together and get the ball rolling. Or just be fucking miserable; I don’t care.”

Dean is slack-jawed. He tries to say something but eventually he shakes his head. “Jesus Christ,” he spits out and takes a big drink. You wince, because you do care and you didn’t mean to be so harsh. Just as you’re about to apologize though he opens his mouth. “I hope you find Chuck soon; you’re such a miserable ass lately.”

You grip the glass so tight you can feel it strain under your hand. “Chuck is dead,” you say through grit teeth and slam back the rest of your drink. You thought you had accepted it, but saying it out loud for the first time sends fresh waves of grief through you. It also reminds you of _why_ you’re so mad at Dean, who could be happy if only he would allow himself to be.

“What?” His tone changes quickly. “When? What happened?”

“The apocalypse. I don’t know.” You toss down money and turn to leave, but stop and take a moment to compose yourself. Once you know you’re not going to cry, you look at Dean. “Don’t just wait and hope for things to turn out, or think they can’t be better. I’m glad I had the guts to be with Chuck while I could, but there’s still so much I didn’t get to do. Get every damn moment you can. Don’t make my mistakes.”

 

“ _Dear Chuck,_

_If I told you everything that’s going on I think even you might not believe this insanity. Or maybe you would. The ‘end of days’ has made us all jaded, I think._

_This particular batch of crazy, though. It started when Dean and I had a fight. I can’t lie, I was a jerk. Cas has been MIA and Dean is frustrated so I told him to suck it up and just kiss Cas already. We fought a little, but the next day he actually took my advice. Even more, he_ talked _to Cas. And Cas returns his feelings. That’s the good news._

_The bad news is that the apocalypse is back on the docket, thanks to Raphael. Cas isn’t strong enough to stand against Raphael, even with half of heaven on his side, and has made a deal, with fucking Crowley of all people, sharing in souls? Apparently you can use souls as firepower, or something. It’s…disturbing, to say the least._

_Dean was pissed as all get-out but we all (Dean, Sam, Bobby and I) talked Cas down and were able to convince him that there has to be some other way, so he’s going to cut his ties with Crowley. Thank god. Or whoever. Either way, we’re going to end up with heaven and hell on our asses all over again, probably. Apocalypse: take two. Fucking fantastic._

_I’m trying to keep a brave face but I’m so fucking scared. Even just the mention of Raphael makes me have to force myself to breathe. Sam and Dean have much more reason to fear archangels but I can’t help it. I hate all of them but one, and that one was one of my best friends who died, partly because of me. Because I begged for his help._

_It’s so selfish, but I try not to think about Gabriel too much. The guilt is suffocating and it’s hard enough that I lost you. But I guess I failed you too. I failed you both._ ”

 

You leave the letter and go to get a drink. A few drinks. The next morning you forget all about it when you receive yet another frantic phone call, this time from Dean. “We know what’s wrong with Sam. We need you, _now_.”

You dump the unfinished letter in the trash, pack up, and run out the door.

 

 

 

 

“Just tell me where they are,” Sam calls out. “Let’s be reasonable about this.”

You hold your breath as he walks closer to your hiding spot. Soulless. Your best friend has no soul. _Sam_ has no soul. It would be hilariously ironic if he hadn’t just tried to _torture_ you for information.

Cas, Dean, and Bobby are currently doing everything they need to pull out Sam’s soul from the Cage. You stayed behind to keep an eye on Sam, which seemed like an easy job up until he decided that he actually didn’t want to get his soul back after all. The frightening ease with which he decided to extract the information from you by any means necessary reminds you that you’re not dealing with your friend anymore.

It’s quiet now. You cautiously peer around the old truck, planning on how you’re going to get to your car, when you hear a gunshot and feel white hot pain in your thigh. You crumple and try to staunch the blood. Sam comes to stand next to your head, and you look up to see the barrel of his gun aimed right at your face.

“Where are they?” he says. The pain is nauseating, almost blinding. You swallow and shake your head.

“Too bad.” He cocks the gun and you brace yourself.

But nothing happens. After a few seconds you peek to see Sam, standing there, gun aimed, but he looks like he’s…straining. “Why,” he growls through grit teeth, “–can’t I _move_?!”

Cas is nowhere to be seen and there’s nothing else to explain this, but within moments you hear a familiar engine roaring and Dean swings the Impala into sight. You crawl away just in time for Sam to shoot the dirt where you just were. You glance back to see Cas behind him, shoving a piece of blinding white light into his body as Sam’s screams echo around you.

 

 

A week later Sam is on his feet looking sad and guilty and annoying the ever-loving shit out of you. “I’m so, _so_ sorr–”

You whirl around and down and give him a charlie horse with as much force as you can muster. As he clutches his leg and curses, you shake out your hand. “There. Now we’re even.”

Dean laughs from his seat at the kitchen table, where he sits almost indecently close to Cas. You point at the angel and say, “Don’t you dare heal him.”

Cas raises his hands as if to ward you off and Bobby rolls his eyes, mutters under his breath, and goes back to his book. Sam stumbles to his feet.

“Relax, Sammy.” Dean tosses a beer to him and then one to you. “You didn’t _actually_ kill anyone.”

Sam sighs and cracks open his drink. “I wanted to though. Hell, I was trying my hardest. But something held me back.”

The way he says ‘something’ makes you all pay attention. “Sam,” Bobby says. “There’s no spirits on my property. Trust me, I made sure.”

“And no demon would have stopped you,” Dean says.

“Neither would an angel,” Cas says. “But if one of mine did, I would have heard of it.”

“It wasn’t natural,” Sam insists.

“You can call it unnatural. _Or_ you can call it a miracle.”

You and Sam whirl around and you find yourself speechless.

Gabriel sits on Bobby’s desk, legs dangling over the back and kicking lightly. Gabriel grins, his eyes glinting in the light, and he pops the sucker out of his mouth to wave it in your general direction. “Hey kids! Miss me?”

 

 

 

 

“ _Dear Chuck,_

_Gabriel is alive._

_I think I might be in shock. First Sam, now Gabriel, but…no you. I want to wail about it not being fair, but I’ve gotten so much. It still isn’t fair though. I’d trade me for you in an instant. Every demon said ‘no’ though._ ”

 

Gabriel flops onto the other bed, pouting. You chuckle despite yourself. “What did you do now?”

“I think banishment is a _little_ harsh for complimenting someone’s ass,” he grumbles.

There’s got to be more to that but you roll your eyes and leave it be. Gabriel seems fine to flip through the TV and lounge. You watch him. You can’t help it; it’s so good to see him relaxed, in shorts and a tank top, and so very alive.

He turns his head and looks at you. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, just…” You sigh. “I’m wondering why you’re still here. You know Cas is going to ask for your help.”

“Aw. It’s so sweet you think he hasn’t already.”

Suddenly you see Gabriel telling you to run; Lucifer; Gabriel’s vessel, still, his wings burned into the ground; Raphael, fierce and unyielding.

You can barely breathe.

“Hey. _Hey_.” Gabriel is in front of you, gripping your arms. “I’m right here.”

“Gabriel, you don’t have to do this,” you plead, holding his arms _tight_. “You died. He’s your brother. I’m sorry I ever asked, and you– you’ve done enough.”

“Oh, I know. Trust me, I’ll be holding this over baby bro’s head for _ever_.” Gabriel lets go and, reluctantly, so do you. “But it’s my choice. That’s what this was always about, wasn’t it? All about choices. And I decide what I do. I have for a long time.” He looks meaningfully at you. And not in an inspiring way. “Besides, I can’t make Sam fall hopelessly in love with me if I _run away_.”

You roll your eyes. “You can’t do it if you’re dead, either.”

“I don’t know about that; I feel like the last time laid some serious groundwork.”

You want to scowl, but he’s so light about it you can only shake your head and hope he doesn’t see you fighting back a smile. “So you are helping Cas, huh?”

“Just a little.” Gabriel pinches his fingers together and then is back on the other bed. “He’s surprisingly okay about it. I thought he’d be all ‘responsibility, archangel, blah, blah, blah,’ but he seems pretty relaxed for a seraph fighting off certain death and dismemberment.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” you say, thinking of that moment in Stull Cemetery, when…

“It won't happen again,” Gabriel grumbles.

You smile. “You're such a softy big brother.”

“Don’t tell anybody,” he warns with a wink.

He goes back to watching TV but something about that strikes you. You think about keeping your mouth shut but, what the hell; Gabriel and Sam are your friends and you want them to be happy. “I won't,” you say. “But you should.”

Gabriel quirks an eyebrow and looks at you. “What?”

“Sam.” You shrug one shoulder. “If you layer on too much sincerity too fast, he’ll think you’re setting him up, and besides that you wouldn’t be yourself. But you should show him you're more than just a flirt, that you’re serious about him. Because if you want to have him, you need to give him a part of you, too.”

“Huh,” he says without any inflection. He goes back to watching TV, though he looks a little spaced out. You’ve done enough, you figure, and go back to your letter.

 

“ _Sometimes I feel like I use these letters to you like a diary, but I don’t think that’s quite true. Not really. There are things I’m afraid to write, like you might actually see them one day. It’s stupid; I can’t even talk to you anymore, let alone…_ ”

 

Your pen slows. “Hey Gabriel?”

“Yeah?”

“Can…can you pray to people that are dead?” You swallow to wet your throat. “If- if they’re in heaven, can they hear it?”

Gabriel sighs and your stomach drops. “I’m sorry, sugar,” he says.

“It’s okay. It was a dumb thought.” You fiddle with the paper, but Gabriel sits up and faces you.

“Dean-o says your prophet was a weird little guy,” Gabriel says.

You have to smile at that. “He was.” You lean back against the headboard. “But he was good, and so sweet, and I really…cared, for him.” You lean your head to the side to look at Gabriel. “It’s too bad I never got the chance to introduce you. I think you would have liked him.” You chuckle. “You certainly would have liked messing with him. He was so nervous, sometimes. But he really admired you.”

Gabriel looks weirded out by that. “Really?” he scoffs. “Yeah– _definitely_ a weird-o.”

“Agree to disagree,” you say. You hold up your letter and wave it flippantly. “I, um, I started writing letters. To him. I lost the others but that’s okay; it’s been pretty therapeutic. I just…miss him so much.”

“Hmm…” Gabriel looks at you, looks at the paper, and smiles.

On instinct, you hover over it protectively. “No.”

He laughs. “It’s nothing bad! I promise,” he says, grinning. _Grinning_.

“That smile says otherwise.”

‘That smile’ tones down considerably, but doesn’t leave. “I was just going to say I could deliver a letter to him, if you want.”

You…consider that. Gabriel _seems_ sincere but there is an undeniable edge of mischief to his tone, and this is _Gabriel_. “You wouldn’t change any of the contents?”

He mocks outrage with a dramatic gasp. “How dare you! Tampering with the mail is a federal offense!”

You laugh, but you have to ask– “It won't screw with his heaven?”

“Psh.” Gabriel waves a hand. “I know my way around that. I can’t do it now– Raphie’s little temper tantrum is making that sort of thing difficult– but I can do it when the apocalyptic buzz settles down.”

The idea excites you. Makes you hopeful. But, your friend or not, it feels a little weird to make Gabriel carry a letter to your dead boyfriend. “I-I can’t ask you to–”

“Nonsense!” He whirls and suddenly he’s dressed like a mailman and saluting with the envelope you had already written Chuck’s name on. Also, your letter is gone. “Just call me ‘Postmaster General.’” He waggles his eyebrows at you. “I _am_ a messenger, after all.”

You smile at him. “Gabriel? You’re the best friend anyone could ask for.”

“I know.” He winks. “Put in a good word with Sam for me?”

“I will. But he’s stubborn, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” He leers and suddenly his uniform is more along the lines of how “Playgirl” would think to dress a mailman. Or how Gabriel thinks “Playgirl” would think to dress a mailman. “I’m looking forward to _that_.”

You…you don’t fully understand that, but you definitely know you don’t want to.

 

 

 

 

You’re not quite sure how you ended up here, dangling by your arms between two angels with Raphael mere feet away, but if you had to be here you wish you had ended up in the circle of holy fire with Sam, Dean, Gabriel, and Cas.

Raphael nods her head in your direction. “Is this your _charge_ , Gabriel?” she sneers.

Dean hisses your name but you have no idea what on earth, heaven, or hell he expects you to do while being held by Immovable Force One and Immovable Force Two. You’d shrug but, oh, wait, _you can’t even do that_.

 _‘Dear Chuck,’_ you compose in your head. _‘I love my friends but sometimes they are SO dumb I just. Can’t.”_

A blade slips from Raphael’s sleeve into her hand and your heart just about stops. Apparently it figures it might as well get an early start.

 _‘It looks like I’ll be coming to see you soon,’_ you continue, and start to tremble as she walks towards you. Raphael is cold and alien and there is nothing, _nothing_ merciful about her, which is tragic and terrifying. _‘I don’t care what the angels try to do to me, I will come find you. I promise.’_

“Raphael, you have no idea what you’re doing!” Gabriel shouts. “Let–”

The sword enters your gut in a sudden burst of unimaginable pain that lasts only a second before shock sets in and you can’t feel anything anymore. Raphael rips the blade out and you fall, and though you want to move, you can’t. You think she might be talking, but you can’t focus on anything. Words hit your ears the way rain hits your face when it’s cold; there but gone before you really notice. Your body is seizing in small, jerky movements, sending little spasms of what might be pain through you, but again, you can’t truly tell. And it’s getting less and less.

Fucked up as it is, part of you is glad to be done with this ‘end of the world’ shit. You can find Chuck now, and–

You suck in a sharp inhale and feel like you’ve just woken up. But you’re lying on cold concrete and your hands are sticky and cracked with wet and drying blood.

You sit up, devoid of pain, and wipe some drool from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. Everyone is staring at you. Everyone. And you can understand why, as you pull up your shirt to look at the hole in it that shows smooth, unbroken skin,

“What is the meaning of this?!” Raphael snaps and whirls, looking for _some_ thing.

“Go home, Raphael.”

The voice sends chills through you and you think you _must_ be hallucinating, but even Sam and Dean look shocked, so you slowly turn your head to look immediately behind you.

It’s _him_. Chuck is standing there, like any other time you’ve seen him fit for public, but exuding confidence and strength you had only ever seen slip out by accident, and not very often at that.

But it’s Chuck, and you’re having a hard time breathing. “Ch-Chuck,” you say, hoarse and shaking.

Raphael makes a low, displeased sound. “Prophet–”

“I said,” Chuck says, sharp and angry. “Go _home_ Raphael.”

There’s a thunderous boom outside that makes you duck your head and cover your ears. When you look up again, Raphael and her flunkies are gone, and so is the ring of fire.

You can barely keep up with what is going on, but when Chuck kneels in front of you, you don’t _care_. “Chuck, Chuck, you– you’re okay?” you whisper and hold his face in your hands. In your _hands_ ; you can feel his warm skin, the tickling of his beard as he slightly turns his head, the kiss he places at the base of your palm.

Sam says your name abruptly. “Easy. We don’t know that’s really Chuck.”

“Yeah we do,” Gabriel says flatly.

Dean starts sputtering. “But how– and _where_ –”

“Gabriel,” Chuck says, without taking his eyes from yours. “Can you take them somewhere else? I need a moment.”

Gabriel says, quite cheerfully, “You got it, pops!”

You can almost hear a record scratch.

A pin drop.

And then your brain actually starts to work again.

“ _WHAT_?!” you, Sam, and Dean all yell in unison.

And then you’re…not there. You’re in a room, a bedroom? A living room? Who the fuck cares; you stand up from whatever soft surface you’re sitting on and go over to Chuck who is, of course, at a wet bar.

“Here, I think we could both use a–”

You rip the bottle out of his hand, slam it onto the counter, grab his shirt, and shove him back against the wall to kiss him senseless. It’s rough, a little painful, and the best thing you’ve felt in months.

When you break apart you both pause to breathe. Heavily.

“That– that was new,” Chuck stammers, like _Chuck_ , the dorky, overwhelmed prophet you know and…

You laugh helplessly and lean into him, hanging your head down to face the floor. “I have never been _so_ in love and _so_ angry at the same time.” You stand up straighter and look at him. “So…well done, I guess.”

Chuck smiles gently and pulls you in for a likewise kiss. You think you might fall apart, so you wrap your arms around him, clinging for dear life. “Why did you leave? What _happened_?” And then, the most important question of all: “What _are_ you? Are you really–”

“Yes,” he says quietly. Firmly. And you have to let go to walk off that revelation. You pace around the bedroom, passing by a bathroom, the bed and nightstands, a desk–

Wait a minute. You step backwards and face the desk to see envelopes, labeled with Chuck’s name in your handwriting, as well as some of your notebook pages not in an envelope, crinkled, but folded and just as carefully placed.

“I got your letters,” Chuck says and hands you a glass nearly full.

“I don’t even remember what I wrote,” you say and down half the drink. It’s smooth but still packs a punch.

“There wasn’t anything bad,” he says. You spare him a glance and he looks good. So good.

You turn fully to face him and set your drink on the desk. “You couldn’t just say ‘this isn’t working’ and send me on my way? You had to _fake your death_?”

Chuck winces. Good. “I couldn’t break up with you,” he says. “Because you would have asked ‘why’ and I couldn’t come up with anything. I love you. I didn’t _want_ to break up with you. I thought it would be easier for you to move on if I was gone completely.”

You gesture at the letters. “Yeah; that’s what I do best. Move on.” You sigh and he shifts. “Why did you have to leave at all? Cas had that damn necklace, _Raphael_ had no idea; you could have–…you could have stayed. Couldn’t you?”

“Being a prophet for the apocalypse gave me a front row seat, an excuse to be there,” Chuck says. “But it also made me vulnerable. I was going to have to ‘die’ after it ended. One way or another.”

You assume there’s more to it, but you’re too emotionally drained to push it. Far. “So why come back?”

Chuck puts his hand over where Raphael’s angel blade had torn into you. “Because you weren’t the only one who couldn’t let go.”

You’re both silent. “So what now?” you ask. “You go back to being ‘dead’ and I go on my way?”

Chuck reaches to take your hands in his. You don’t know what he means by it, but you’re stupidly hopeful. You remember another time like this, sitting in low light together on his couch, drunk and scooting closer. He had taken your hands in his suddenly, lightly rubbing them and trying to stammer something out, and you had thought ‘fuck it’ and leaned into kiss him. It was a good start. You can only hope this is too.

“I don’t want that,” he says and you feel fit to burst with joy. “The secret’s out; more than one person wants to have a word with me, I’m _sure_.” He winces. “I don’t really want to go back but that’s a conversation I’ll have to have with Castiel, Raphael, and Gabriel. As for us…this is never going to be normal.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Chuck,” you say. “I hunt monsters for no money, very little glory, and an even smaller amount of thanks. Two of my best friends have literally been to hell and back. Two of my other best friends are angels. I was totally fine with dating someone I thought was God’s mouthpiece. I have not been in the realm of normal for a long time. Don’t give me bullshit excuses– just say what you _want_.”

He swallows hard and looks at you with eyes that are sharp, focused, and, now you know, ancient and knowing. “I want you,” he says. But for someone all-knowing, he seems so unsure. Because this is your choice and the man– or whatever– you know and love, is going to respect whatever you decide.

You lean in, almost close enough to kiss. Almost. “If you _ever_ try to literally ghost me again, then god–” You huff in frustration. That’s going to be annoying. “–Then _goodness_ help you because I will make you regret it. And I’ll make Sam, Dean, and Gabriel help me.”

Chuck smiles. “That is entirely fair,” he says and pulls you in for a tight embrace. “I won't do that to you again. I promise.”

“Mm.” You breathe in the scent of old books and sweet liquor and sigh. You’re content and at peace for the first time in a long time, and you intend to soak up the feeling.

However you have one last piece of business to address. “Hey Chuck?”

“Yes?”

“Does this mean I have the authority to ground Raphael for at _least_ a year?”

Chuck laughs. “We’re going to have to work on your scope of time.”

That’s something you haven’t thought about yet, and that you’re not going to think about now. But it’s not as daunting as you would imagine. “As long as it’s with you.”

“Always,” he murmurs, and turns his head to kiss you.

 


End file.
